


Five records Jones wishes Dan never found in his collection

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Music, five things, mush, they're so in love yeah?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: More fluff than the soft toys aisle at Mothercare.





	Five records Jones wishes Dan never found in his collection

i.

 

“What’s this?”

“Oi!” Jones moves a bit too quickly; quicker even than he normally does when someone’s touching his vinyl: he virtually flings himself over the back of the sofa to get to where Dan’s crouching. “I didn’t say you could go through my stuff!”

Usually, Jones is the polar opposite of precious when it comes to people touching his stuff. Crockery, toiletries, even down to clothes, the house became a virtual commune when Dan and Claire moved in and Jones is generous and tolerant to a fault. Or maybe just pilling most of the time; Dan can’t quite decide. His records are a different matter though and kneeling on the thin carpet in front of one of a multitude of heavy-duty silver cases normally kept padlocked, Dan feels a real thrill of the forbidden.

“Nah, come on, Dan, mate – watch what you’re doing!”

Dan holds the garishly coloured 12” at arms length and enjoys the way Jones’ brows knit together.

“Don’t break it!”

“I won’t break it.” Says Dan, from the corner of his grin. He’s getting some kind of sadistic buzz from this that sort of puzzles even himself. Flipping through the stack of white-labels in plain cardboard sleeves, this one had really stood out. “Not your usual style though, is it, eh? I bet Ned would love to know you’ve got this little gem in your collection.”

Dan gives in as Jones grabs him by the sleeve and hauls his arm down, unpicking his fingers from around the record and sliding it back into the case, at the back.

“Ned wouldn’t know quality if it bit him on the arse. This is a kitsch classic, this is.” His eyes dart around behind his fringe, guiltily, almost, “End of night novelty floor-filler, leave everyone laughing.” He looks shifty. “You can’t argue with the Muppets.”

 

ii.

 

“You’ve got a whole puppet-based stash here, haven’t you?”

He’s been told to keep his nose out, but weaseling the nuggets of embarrassment out from between the rarities and bizarrities of Jones’ livelihood has become a virtual compulsion for Dan. Jones sticks his head around the doorway. He says,

“Do you ever fucking listen to me?” But he sounds more amused than angry.

“Of course I listen to you. Every word. I take it all in, then decide whether to ignore you or not.” Dan smiles. “Hang on, we’ve got coffee?”

“Uh huh.” Jones sits on the couch, tucks his feet beneath him, sipping from a steaming mug. As Dan disappears into the kitchen, he leans down to pick up the record Dan’s left propped against a speaker. He swallows coffee. He raises his voice.

“How cool was Bowie’s hair in this film though?”

“It’s puppets!”

“But how cool?”

“Hardly Ziggy Stardust, is it?”

Jones is humming under his breath, _you remind me of the babe_. He scrubs his fingers through the back of his hair.

“Whatever, mate. Nothing you can say can make me ashamed of Labyrinth.”

 

 

iii.

 

 

“You cannot possibly defend this one. This is just rubbish.”

By now, it’s become sort of a game. Jones will leave his cases unlocked accidentally on purpose, to see if Dan’s still looking. The challenge is, to make the excuse convincing: neither of them are really disgusted, not really; it’s just something else to talk about.

“It’s gash, alright? Yeah. It’s what I call a _sacrifice_ , for your information. You take a really bad track, right, and you send it totally FUBAR; mix it up ‘til nobody knows what it started out like.” Jones flips the record over in his hands, spins it like the pro he is. His eyes have this thoughtful, far away look just for a second. “Play this at 35, really drag it out, lay something well nasty over the top, you won’t believe how good I can have it sounding. And before you go back rooting and find all my Donna Summer, that’s a sacrifice as well, OK?”

Dan doesn’t look convinced, but then Dan’s face usually looks like that, it’s sort of a default setting. Jones wonders what it must be like to be so… hopeless? He wonders why he’s feeling like he has to defend himself to Dan. Clear in his mind, the memory of one summer in about 1991. It’s a fair on the carpark outside Asda, one of them travelling ones all hazy with a fog of diesel and sharp with the threat of knifings. Last day of summer term, they’d all met up there, Dready jeans with a litre bottle of cider down one leg, cigarettes and poppers and candyfloss. The octopus, this ride was called, threw you around in those little cars like a pea in a whistle, Jones with his arm around Sarah Moseley, the music pummelling his head, _“Do do you love me, baby?”_ At that moment, the warm night air, the summer holidays unfurling ahead of you, you know you can fly.

 

iv.

 

 

“I was shaking in my shoes, whenever she flashed those baby blues.”

Dan waves the 12”, plastered with an image of a big pair of tits, in time to his off-key singing. Jones dive-bombs onto the sofa, pops open another cheap Dutch lager. It’s bank holiday Sunday and everyone’s in a rarely coinciding good mood. Jones chants,

“Nah-nah-nana-na-nah!” He attempts some hand claps, sloshing booze onto his crotch, then he’s got the giggles. Dan says,

“Jones… Jones…”

“What?”

“Put it on!”

“What, so’s you can take the piss s’more?”

Dan’s hand curls beneath Jones’ legs, lifting his feet to one side so he can slump down onto the couch next to him. Jones stretches his legs out again, his feet on Dan’s lap, and Dan doesn’t complain or move them or anything. Jones’ head lolls back against the arm of the couch. He reaches down into the cardboard crate on the floor and hands Dan a stubby green bottle.

“Jones… Jones, go on.”

“Yeah, alright then.” He grins. It makes Dan grin; Jones’ smile; it’s sort’ve a smile detonator. Happiness dominos, thinks Dan, _whenever he flashes those baby blues_. The first bars of that ridiculous upbeat riff, sax or keyboard or whatever the hell it is, ring out raucously. Behind the decks, Jones is waving his hands in the air, his regiment of plastic toys vibrating with the drumbeats. Dan stamps his feet in time. He yells over the music,

“You know, I think I’m letting you off on this one.”

 

v.

                                            

 

“No, you’ve really hit rock bottom now.” Dan actually sounds shocked. Jones frowns. It’s not a crime, right? Drugs, booze, not a crime. Music – what? Dan’s voice echoes mesmerised horror. “I never thought anything you did would actually shock me.”

“I just… like it, OK?”

And Jones is wondering again why he cares so much what Ashcroft thinks. Dan, with his polo shirts and shelf full of Chomsky novels. He can’t quite look him in the eye, even. There’s this sort of image he feels obliged to live up to when he’s round Dan. Not like Dan even shows any indication of approving or disapproving or anything, he just… he feels this overruling need to seem _cool_. Jones stares at a spot on the floor where the carpet’s pulled away from the wall in a tangle of frayed hessian. They’re stuck in this impasse, that fucking song going around and around in Jones’ head, _it’s the one who won’t be taken, who cannot seem to give._ Dan says,

“Just that, well…”

Jones looks up, sharply.

 _And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live_.

Dan’s voice is quiet. “I’m just surprised you wouldn’t go for the Bette Midler version instead, that’s all.” He clears his throat, awkwardly. Jones’ eyes have gone very big. He looks like he’s searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he opts not to say anything at all. His hand finds Dan’s, clumsily, and stays there, and Dan doesn’t pull away.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this, give yourself a hug from me x


End file.
